We have built an entire economy on the enigmatic pull of nostalgia, on that 'heap of broken images' that intersect like shattered glass on our consciousness. The recent burial of said economy is proof of the flimsy, fickle nature of nostalgia. Nostalgia is a 'dead tree' that we cling to in desperate hope that some kernel of a longed for but ancient reality will drop from it. It is a cyanide pill that offers us no hope of touching what it is that we have lost. It is the air breathed by the past, whispered in our ears on frosty November nights. It promises reprieve but delivers nothing we can touch. It cannot be trusted. It cannot be believed. Nostalgia is a loaded gun.